Please God, Let Me Live
by Briar Elwood
Summary: A sudden, loud cry rang through the air, startling Sherlock. He collected himself quickly, staring at the door in shock. Never before had John yelled out like that.
1. Instinct

_If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your last few seconds what would you say?_

_Please God, let me live._

_Oh, use your imagination!_

_I don't have to._

* * *

><p>There it was. The scuffling sound. Sherlock's fingers halted their caress of his violin bow as he listened closer, tilting an ear upwards slightly. This was routine now. Every night when the scuffling noises started, Sherlock would stop whatever he was doing and wait for a few moments. Sometimes that would be all there was to it.<p>

But other times a pained, muffled voice would join the scuffling. If this went on for too long, Sherlock would carefully, silently, tread up the stairs to the door of John's bedroom. There he would wait, listening. Just making sure John was all right.

Soon the whimpering and the mumbling would stop. Usually it would just fade off into light snores. Every now and again Sherlock could hear a sharp gasp and that would end it. Either way, Sherlock would then saunter back down the stairs and resume whatever task he'd been occupied with.

So tonight Sherlock waited. Waited to hear just how bad John's nightmares were tonight. If John knew that Sherlock was so aware of his nightly plague he would probably not only be embarrassed but would tell the consulting detective off for being creepy. Sherlock didn't see it that way. All he wanted to know was that his friend was all right. He always was, yes. But Sherlock didn't want to miss the one time that John might not be quite okay.

There. That was the tenor of John's voice, slightly deepened by sleep. Sherlock set down the bow next to where the violin sat on the desk and tiptoed up the stairs. He placed his ear against the door and listened.

"P-please," came the voice through the door. "Oh, God, please..."

Something twisted tight in Sherlock's stomach. He was used to this sensation by now. He still didn't quite understand it, but it always happened whenever he stood here, listening to his friend in distress.

"Let... let me live..."

That caught Sherlock off guard. Never before had Sherlock realized that the particular dream John was having was about his near-death experience. He had always just assumed his nightmares consisted of just general horrible war. Sherlock pressed his ear harder against the wood.

"No... please... Please, God... Please God, let... let me live..." A sudden, loud cry rang through the air and Sherlock scrambled backwards away from the door, surprised. He collected himself quickly, staring at the door in shock. Never before had John yelled out like that.

Sherlock stood stock still, quite unsure of what to do next. There was only silence coming from John's bedroom now, meaning he was awake. That should mean that it was time for Sherlock to go back downstairs. John was all right. John was awake, which meant he was all right.

Except that hadn't sound like "all right".

Then Sherlock heard a hoarse sort of croak. A cough, clearing of the throat. Then:

"Sherlock?"

The waver in John's voice pushed Sherlock through the bedroom door without hesitation. John had pulled his legs over the side of his bed and he sat on the edge, staring horrified into space. He looked up when the door opened in surprise.

"I didn't think..." He had to clear his throat again. "I didn't think you'd be able to hear me."

Sherlock paused briefly, thinking of how John was sure to react. "I was just outside, listening."

But John didn't react. He simply nodded his understanding and went back to staring into space. Sherlock rocked awkwardly on his heels. Obviously his friend needed comfort. But Sherlock had no idea how to give it.

A shuddering gasp escaped John's lips, piercing through the silence. He slid swiftly from sitting on the bed to kneeling on the floor, curling so his face was hidden as his body rocked with sudden sobs.

Sherlock didn't think. He didn't consider his options or wonder how John might take it; he simply took one long step closer to the army doctor, knelt down beside him, and scooped him into his arms, cradling him as he shushed him gently. And there he stayed until the sobs quieted away and the shaking stopped.

_A/N: Part one of two. Second part will have John telling Sherlock what actually happened when he almost died._

_I love reviewers and live for constructive criticism!_


	2. Trust

John gave a great sniff as he sat back up, rubbing his nose and eyes and avoiding Sherlock's ever present gaze. The silver grey eyes shone brightly through the dark, boring into the side of John's head. John shifted uncomfortably, starting to recognize the significance of what had just happened.

"Are you all right?"

John glanced at Sherlock but looked away quickly. Damn it, did the man ever blink?

"Yeah, I'm-" His throat closed up and his coughed, trying to clear it. "I'm fine."

Sherlock's expression didn't change even in the slightest. After a moment of elongated silence, he spoke again.

"John, what happened?"

John shook his head as if it didn't matter. "It was just a dre-"

"That's not what I meant."

John looked up, finally meeting Sherlock's concerned gaze. _Concerned_. Sherlock was _concerned_. John tried to muster up the strength to stare the other man down, to make it clear that he was not going to go into that topic. But at the same time, part of John desperately wanted to tell his friend. He trusted Sherlock with his life. If there was anyone in this world who he could tell about his near death experience, it would be Sherlock.

"Two and a half years ago. Afghanistan. We were going back to our home base after a two week long scouting mission. We were all exhausted, dirty, and ready to get back to some place where there was at least wifi. Then the humvee in front blew up."

* * *

><p>It was immediate chaos. John didn't hesitate, the instinct from training taking over, and he grabbed the door handle, throwing himself out of the vehicle. Gun held steadily in his hands, ready, he looked around frantically for the enemy as bullets seemed to rain towards them all from every direction. A scream filled John's ears and, despite the danger, he couldn't help but look. Just a foot to his right, his good friend, his best friend out here, Pete Johnson, crumbled to the sand. John blinked furiously, turning his attention back to the fight, when a sharp, searing pain exploded in his left shoulder.<p>

White hot pain blinded him, the impact shoving him back against the humvee. There was an anguished bellow ringing in the air, but all of John's senses had honed in on the burning metal that had embedded itself in muscle. The doctor in him immediately took an inventory of the extent of the damage. The bullet had hit bone and shards of bone were adding to the pain as well. Warm, thick blood was steadily spilling out onto his uniform. There was a _hole_ in his body, John realized, feeling sick to his stomach. He'd seen injuries much worse than this, but this was his own body this time: there was a _hole_ in his shoulder, a hole where there never should be.

John struggled to keep himself on his feet, using the humvee against his back as support. The chaos of battle still raged around him, he suddenly realized, and John was going to be no help to anyone with a wound like this. He stared around, trying to decide his next move.

Suddenly the world seemed to turn into fire and sound. For the few seconds before he blacked out, a terrible noise consumed his hearing and fire filled every other sense. It was a true blessing when the hellish world ceased to exist, leaving only black.

* * *

><p>"I don't know why I didn't die," John said hoarsely, eyes fixed in the blackness. Sherlock's presence formed back into existence in John's consciousness. The tall, lanky man had pulled his legs around into a cross-legged position, his eyes still glowing through the night, waiting and watching patiently.<p>

"All I can come up with is just a pure, honest miracle. You can't be a doctor, you can't be in the army, without realizing miracles do happen. I woke up a few hours later. I only know it was that long because the attack had happened in the morning and when I woke up the sun was at full force, noonday. It hadn't been longer than a day because I wasn't burnt to a crisp yet.

"I was burnt badly from the explosion. Everyone else was dead. I tried to gather as much of the water canteens as I could, but most of them were riddled with holes or didn't have much water left in them to begin with. I rationed it as much as I could. Made myself a little shelter in a up-turned humvee. I lived on a small shred of hope that was sanded down by every passing minute.

"I don't know how long I was there. I never asked. But I had given up before I was rescued. I passed out before they found me. And, I suppose, the rest is history."

John gave a slight cough. All this talking, all this memory... The heat and the sand of the Afghanistan desert seemed to have settled in John's throat. Water. He wanted water.

He started when a cool, long-fingered hand rested on his forearm. He looked up to see Sherlock had moved closer, eyes looking almost imploringly at his friend.

"Thank you, John. I appreciate the trust."

John nodded sharply. "Thank you for listening."

"Is there anything I can get for you right now?" Sherlock asked, fingers tightening their grip on John's arm ever so slightly. John placed his other hand on top of Sherlock's, a silent thank you for the extra support.

"Water. Water would be nice."

Sherlock nodded, hand slipping out from under John's and getting to his feet. John watched his dark figure leave, pondering this strange development. Sherlock was always so adamant when it came to the idea that he didn't care. Caring didn't help. But it seemed the detective didn't quite fully believe that.

And John was quite all right with that.

_A/N: Thank you all for reading this! I'm glad so many people enjoyed it! Maybe I should write more multi-chapter stuff... Yay or nay?_

_I love reviews and live for constructive criticism!_


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